Monday, December 03, 2007
Until recently, my writing was more effort than inspiration. For a month, I haven't written. I can only pen so many rhymes and blog entries to Prester Bane. For now, I'm left without a muse: the time passes with no reason to write but my own meandering experience. There's no seal in the crimson skies for sonnets; she never was what I built her to become. There's no beautiful princess in Black and Yellow to elaborate with blank verse; I destroyed the words. I'm left with not even a faceless foe to hide my Monster; I'm plain to those who read. Even now, I'm waxing poetic and I'm not fooling anyone.